


They'll Love You in My Shadow

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Blangst, Future Fic, Klaine, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Famed Hollywood director Artie Abrams invites his bread-and-butter actor to the Abrams Estate for a weekend getaway. Really Blaine, just come chillax. Kurt too, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They'll Love You in My Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the gem that is Artie's love for Blaine in the rough of Season 4. Thanks to [catpennies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/incendiary/pseuds/catpennies) for reminding me that it isn't Klaine without a little smut, and that's canon now. Title shamelessly stolen from The House that Heaven Built by Japandroids.

Blaine is suspicious.

Artie sending his own plane is reason enough to suspect something is up. That the plane is stocked with salted dark chocolate (Blaine’s weakness), and French truffled brie (Kurt’s), and a screener of Baz Luhrmann's latest unreleased adventure-romance epic, only serves to make Blaine far too suspicious to enjoy it.

Though he does enjoy Kurt in the monogrammed robe Artie's flight crew graces him with as soon as they board.

“Lighten up, honey. This is just how Artie lives now. The little pleasures of the ultra rich. Oh, slippers too? Divine!”

Blaine might have suspected Sugar’s lavish hand in it, but this is too classy, too personal. Blaine’s robe is a deep maroon, but Kurt’s is black. Blaine loves Kurt in black.

After 15 years of toiling together in the merciless trenches of show business, Artie knows Blaine. And Blaine knows Artie. And Blaine is very, very suspicious.

“Seriously, relax- oh my god, try this.” Kurt leans across the plush arm of his cabin chair and pops the second half of his milk-basted lamb slider into Blaine’s mouth. It’s perfect, of course, tender and garlicy and on a soft pretzel bun. He swallows around his simmering anxiousness, grimacing back at Kurt’s delight.

Blaine dabs at his mouth with his linen napkin and takes a sip of his Veuve Clicquot from his elegant crystal flute. The plane, or jet more accurately, continues to smoothly hurtle them from New York to LA, almostly soundlessly compared to a commercial airliner. One of the pretty blonde flight attendants refills his glass while another one (twins?) hands Kurt a touchscreen remote that operates everything from the miniature theater they’re lounging in front of to the shades on the windows to the steam shower in their private bathroom. The little pleasures of the ultra rich indeed.

“Maybe he wants me to shoot in Yemenganistan or something. Or gain eighty pounds for a role. Or, god forbid, shoot another sequel to _Ape Academy_.”

Blaine’s breakout role, so to speak, had been playing lead in Artie’s first motion picture, a family comedy about a monkey who enrolls at an all-boys private school. Before _Blaine Anderson_ had become an A-list celebrity name, most people would respond to recognizing him by shouting “Shorty McCurls!” at him and demanding he sing his most memorable song, _Math is Bananas._ Sometimes, when he’s stressed, Blaine starts awake in the night, the lyrics _this spun-ky mon-key is a multiplication-sensation!_ still on his lips and Kurt has to shush him back to sleep.

The royalties are what paid for their loft in Chelsea, but Blaine hasn’t touched a banana cream pie in almost a decade.

Kurt wrinkles his nose. “I think you’re overthinking this. I will concede that Artie is skilled in the art of manipulation, but that just proves my point. All this-” he gestures around the decadent cabin with a slider “-isn’t subtle and sneaky enough. If he really wanted to persuade you into doing something distasteful, you’d be doing it right now and none the wiser. No offense, honey. And, for the record, I would fully approve of you gaining weight for a role,” he finishes, leering at Blaine’s stomach.

Blaine puts a hand on his flat-ish belly, the silk of the robe soft. “I indulge a lot of your kinks, Mr. Hummel. You'll have to work for that one though.”

“You get to order something other than salad. And I get, how does it go? More cushioning for the pushioning? That. Everyone wins.” Kurt winks, holds a grape rolled in goat cheese and crushed pistachios to Blaine’s lips. Blaine finishes chewing before telling him,

“I love you.”

Twinkly eyes and the sweet tilt of his head and that wide, gorgeous smile Blaine likes to believe is only for him.

“I love you too, Shorty.”

Blaine groans. “If a sound even close to the word ‘ape’ starts coming out of Artie’s mouth, we’re immediately getting back on this plane, agreed?”

“I support your decision to walk away from that franchise,” Kurt agrees solemnly.

Blaine puts his glass down and pats his lap. Seems a shame that Blaine has his husband alone, away from his crazy job, trapped thousands of feet in the air, food-drunk and soft-looking, and they’re not touching.

“The captain has the fasten seatbelt sign turned off. How about you come over here. If there’s enough ‘cushion’ for you, that is.”

Kurt dimples at him and rolls his eyes, but does get up and fold into Blaine’s lap, a familiar and comforting crush of limbs and pretty-smelling hair.

Together they figure out the remote, heads bent over it, Kurt close enough for Blaine to push his nose into Kurt’s cheek. After getting the disco ball to retract back into the ceiling when they accidentally hit _Artie-Partie Mode_ they manage to dim the cabin and get the giant display turned on.

The movie is good, but what’s better is Kurt’s laughter echoing through his ribs and into Blaine’s own chest. Kurt’s happy sighs against his shoulder. Kurt’s sweet hum whenever Blaine twists his head to kiss Kurt’s forehead. Kurt is a lapful of soothing balm to his worry as they fly closer to the west coast. Whatever Artie has up his sleeve, he was shrewd in planning to mellow Blaine by inviting Kurt too.

Suspicious.

***  
Puck greets them on the tarmac as Blaine hands Kurt down the stairs from the plane.

“What’s up, bro? Hum-dinger!” he shouts, a fistbump for Blaine and a half-hug for Kurt.

“Hey man! What are you doing here?” Blaine asks, genuinely happy to see him. Puck has worked for Artie for as long as Blaine can remember, in various vague yet invaluable capacities.

 _“Family business,”_ Puck will say airily when asked. _“Dirty work and cleaning up.”_

Whatever that all entails, Puck is always dressed in a sharp suit like the one he’s wearing now, and he’s certainly overqualified for an airport pickup.

“Artie wanted to make sure you guys are ‘taken care of’. Usually that means I contract the services of some lovely ladies I know from Venice to work the pole in the limo. But for you two, you get the Puckerman special.”

“What, _you’ll_ be stripping in the limo?” Kurt asks, horrified.

“Naw, man! Means I start the singalong in the chopper.”

Blaine looks at Kurt meaningfully, eyebrows up. “Oh, Artie sent his helicopter for us too?”

“Hell yeah, bro! Let’s go; Malibu awaits!”

***

Blaine has to force a smile when they’re welcomed to the Abrams Estate by Artie and Sugar’s five children, arrayed in Von Trappian-formation on the grand staircase and dressed (reluctantly, by the looks of it) in matching leopard-print overalls, all singing _Do-Re-Mi_ in harmony.

Kurt clasps his hands and gasps, enchanted by their show, cooing when little two-year-old Giovanni solos in a bell-clear soprano.

“ _Really?_ ” Blaine mouths at Artie, sitting smug in his chair. Artie gives him a falsely innocent eyebrow-raise, mouth twitching.

Blaine turns back to Artie’s blatant manipulation of his heartstrings, arm around Kurt’s waist, and tries not to scowl at Artie’s admittedly awesome children.

“Bravo! Bravo! Well done! You guys are going on tour right?” Kurt gushes, clapping enthusiastically. He gives Blaine a subtle nudge in the side, a reminder that it’s him the kids are performing for, that it’s his appreciation that would mean the most.

As ridiculous as it sounds, sometimes Blaine forgets that he’s a _movie star_. That people somehow think his attention, his approval, his opinion, hold some credibility, just because he’s a professional liar who knows how to give face to a camera. Forgets that with his fame comes the responsibility to be gracious and patient and magnanimous, when often all he wants to do is shy away, to hole up with his beautiful husband, escape all the people who want so many little tearing bites of him.

So he claps and whistles and rubs little Giovanni’s hair when he runs up for a hug around Blaine’s leg. He’ll play Artie’s game in front of the kids. For now.

Sensing Blaine’s growing impatience, Artie encourages Sugar to take them on a tour of the mansion, to show off their recent additions. While Blaine is moderately interested in what tastelessness Sugar and her black Amex have conjured lately, Kurt grins with an evil sort of delight, taking Blaine’s proffered elbow as they follow the clack of Sugar’s neon pink mules.

An hour later and they’ve just finish admiring the Abrams’ new French raclette nook (Blaine doesn’t need Kurt’s pointed and determined eyebrow or Kurt’s nails in his arm to know that the Hummel-Anderson household will soon have one as well) when Artie wheels into the kitchen.

“Thanks babe, I’ll take it from here.” Artie holds up two lint rollers. “The white tigers just had cubs, who wants to go frolic with the cutest creatures on earth?”

Blaine puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder to stifle his squeal.

“Artie. Stop.”

“Kurt, who is this man you’ve brought with you? The Blaine Anderson I know would be tossing all dignity to the wind in the face of tiger cub cuteness. Did I mention we named one of them ‘Shorty’?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sees Kurt shake his head and make a slicing motion across his neck for Artie to shut up, but it’s too late, the other shoe has dropped.

“Artie, just spill already. What’s really going on?” Blaine demands.

Artie squints up at him, then drops his hands back into his lap.

“Can’t you just relax, B? I invited you two out here for some R&R. You know, Justin and Jessica are coming over for dinner and go-karting-”

“-JT!” Kurt squeaks.

Blaine glares back at Artie. “No, I don't think so. Come on, Artie, ‘fess up. This is some world-class tenderizing and you know that doesn’t actually work on me.” He takes a breath and glances at Kurt, who is watching him with a little encouraging smile. He continues, less harsh. “Let’s just hear whatever you have up your sleeve so I can agree to it because when have you ever led me astray?”

Artie purses his lips and slowly sits back in his chair, tenting the tips of his fingers.

“Okay, fine. It’s true, I was planning to mix a little business with pleasure, and if you're going to be a spoilsport, we can discuss it now.”

“Alright, good,” Blaine says, and sits on one of the raclette lounges when Artie motions him to, pulling Kurt to sit beside him.

Kurt resists, glancing to the archway Sugar had clacked through, bored.

“Should I...?” he asks Blaine, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“No, Kurt, you should stay,” Artie says before Blaine can insist upon it. Kurt gives him a little questioning frown but nudges up beside Blaine, legs elegantly crossing.

Artie takes a considering breath and begins.

“Blaine. You know I love and respect you, both as an artist and as a friend. The film legacies we’ve built together are timeless. The Ape Academy movies, the Nightbird trilogy, hell, we’ve defined and dominated the entire romaction-zomedy genre.”

Blaine nods, baffled by Artie’s lead in. It’s starting to sound like a breakup speech. “Okay...”

“Between the two of us, we’ve nabbed five Golden Globes, eight People’s Choice awards, more guild awards than Spielberg, may he rest in peace, and god only knows how many Teen Choice awards, I mean, when are you _not_ getting jizzed on-”

“Artie, it’s green slime.”

“-whatever, point is, we’ve worked hard and paid our dues and yes, we’ve seen major box-office successes, and yes we’ve received recognition, and yet. And yet _the_ award, _the pinnacle_ , remains elusive.”

“ _An Oscar_ ,” Kurt breathes beside him and gropes for Blaine’s hand. Blaine turns his palm into his husband’s, locks their fingers, familiar and secure.

“That’s right,” Artie confirms. “Perhaps the ultimate film achievement. We’ve both tasted the bitter disappointment of a nomination without a win...fucking evil-Abrams...” Artie trails off for a second, glaring into the skylight above them. ‘J.J.’ is never to be uttered within the walls of this Abrams mansion.

Artie grunts, lips twisted, before giving himself a little shake and turning in his chair to rummage through the compartment in the back of it. He pulls out a bound sheaf of papers, what can only be a script, and raises it in front of himself like Moses presenting the ten commandments.

“Gentlemen, I hold here in my hands the script that will change all that.”

“Awesome, great, fantastic. So how much weight do I have to lose?” Blaine smiles, reaching for the script. He knew it; either major weight-gain or weight-loss, Academy kryptonite.

But Artie pulls the script back out of his reach, flips it so that the type on the front is face down in his lap. He taps the pages, almost sort of _nervously_. If Artie ever got nervous, which he doesn’t.

“No major weight-loss,” he says, and strangely, flicks his eyes to Kurt.

Blaine frowns. “Okay...so what’s it about then?”

Artie clears his throat. “Original script. World War I Britain. Your character, the lead of course, is blind for half the film.”

Kurt shakes their clasped hands excitedly. A period piece? An accent? A disability? It’s like the trifecta for a guaranteed nomination. But Artie isn’t done.

“...And it’s a romance.” Artie pauses.

“What else?” Blaine asks cautiously, but subconsciously, really, he knows what Artie is going to tell him next.

“...The lead character is gay.” And Artie doesn’t even need to finish, Blaine suddenly knows what this is all about. “And there is kissing. And there are a couple of sex scenes. Aaaaaaand it’s not negotiable.”

“No,” he says immediately, just like he always does. “No.”

“Honey...,” Kurt says tentatively, and Blaine lets go of his hand, stands up. His feet almost take him to the patio. He wants so badly to just walk away. How could someone who claims to care about him ask him to do something he won’t. Can’t.

“Blaine, just, take a breath, okay?” Artie huffs. “Just, stop for a second. Read the script. It’s an original William Goldman. The bidding is already up to three million, and the studio is prepared to pay him whatever he wants if you and I sign on. It’s that good. Just, read it. Please.”

Blaine turns around to Artie’s determined face, and Artie holds out the script, like a lure. Blaine ignores him, looks to his husband. But Kurt’s head is down, fingers to his lips, eyebrows pinched at the toe of his shoe.

Blaine has never kissed another man, personally _or_ professionally, since he and Kurt broke up, back in his senior year of high school. Since he cheated on Kurt. Since he broke Kurt’s trust.

Yes, he'd played a gay man. And a flamboyantly gay man, and for one memorably small non-speaking part on NCIS, a gay corpse. But never has he taken a role that would require him to be intimate with another man.

When they were young, early in their careers, Kurt had laughed at him, been annoyed with him, called him ridiculous for turning down ripe parts in AMC dramas and independent films, platforms that would give Blaine the exposure he needed.

Kurt had said he didn't care. Kurt had patiently explained that they were both actors, consummate performers, and in no way would Kurt ever interpret Blaine kissing another actor as Blaine being unfaithful. They were married for godsake, young and foolishly, sure, but only in the eyes of the rest of the world. They’d both meant their vows when they’d said them, and their love and devotion to each other had only grown and strengthened since.

But.

But Kurt had never kissed another man on stage either. Never once. Sure, Broadway didn’t have the same wealth of opportunities that television and movies did, but. Blaine had long suspected that Kurt had indeed been cast as Albin in the revival of _La Cage Aux Folles_ and turned it down, that he hadn’t been passed over for being too young. A role that would have had him kissing another man, a very masculine and tall man, six days a week, twice on Saturdays.

He blinks back to Artie, who is foolishly looking hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “You’re on your own for this one, buddy.”

Artie’s jaw clenches and he says, “You’re not even going to look at it?”

“I don’t have to.”

“This is it, Blaine. This is the character you were born to play,” Artie says, his voice rising like a dictator’s.

Blaine doesn’t say, _“No, I was born to love Kurt.”_ because Artie will laugh at him and Kurt probably will too, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

That golden statue cool in his grip, deafening applause from the crowd. The orchestra cutting him off because his speech would be rudely long and tear-filled. Being introduced as _Academy Award Winner Blaine Anderson_.

Kurt, sleepy and soft, blinking from their bed. White arm extended to pull Blaine into their warm nest, smiling into Blaine’s neck when he settles around him.

“You’ll cast someone else-”

“There’s no one else who could pull this off. You don’t need me telling you you’re the best, do you, B?”

“Artie...”

“Look. You’re here for the next couple of days, all I’m asking is that you read it.” At Blaine’s look he amends that to, “Okay, just skim it?”

“No,” Blaine says, and turns before he can see the disappointment in Artie’s face again.

“Can I read it?”

Like a needle scratching off a record, both Artie and Blaine whip their heads to Kurt.

“Kurt-” Blaine starts.

“Yes!” Artie yelps, and tosses the script at him. Kurt catches it two-handed with a grimace and an eye-roll.

“Artie, don’t pop a flat, I just want to see what the fuss is about. If you think I have any say in this matter, you’re in for more heartache. If I did, Shorty here would have been Brokeback Mounting a long time ago.”

“Egh,” Blaine groans.

Artie rubs his fingertips together in a disturbingly Mr. Burnsian way, looking at Kurt like he’s agreed to tie Blaine up and drive him to the set everyday.

Kurt fans himself with the pages, and smirks up at Blaine.

“I’ll save it for some light bedtime reading I think. Now what was that about Justin and Jessica dropping by...?”

***  
“Oh no!” Kurt gasps, hand flat to his chest. He looks adorable, relaxed against the elaborate zebra-striped headboard, reading glasses giving him a young, earnest, phD student kind of air.

“Let me guess,” Blaine responds blandly from the pillow next to Kurt’s hip. “One of the lovers is MIA and the other is told he’s dead and then goes on a scalping rampage through the trenches in revenge.”

Kurt scowls down at him, letting the script flop to the bed, open to about three-quarters of the way in, sets his glasses on top of it. “No. Well, yes, that happens, but it’s not what I’m upset about.”

“A scalping rampage doesn’t upset you? Geez, what does it take?” he snorts.

“Honey, they kill off the dog.”

Blaine turns his head from where he’s snuggled his nose into Kurt’s leg and looks up to see if he’s joking.

“ _No._ ”

“Yes,” Kurt sniffs.

“Holy cow, this really is an Oscar contender.” He sits up a little, takes Kurt’s hand. “Oh, oh no, you’re really upset.”

Kurt’s lip is trembling, eyes watery and blinking fast. Blaine sits up a little more and eases Kurt’s head to his chest.

“Shhh, shh, aw, Kurt, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing Kurt’s back in little soothing circles.

“It’s just, they really built it up so well. Poor thing had to pull wounded soldiers from the field, and then, and then it got shot!” Kurt hiccups.

“Aw, shhh, shhh. It’s a good thing I’m not doing it then, right? I’d never survive the shoot if there was a dog. I’d come home with all the stunt doubles.”

“No more dogs,” Kurt admonishes, and Blaine is glad to hear he’s distracted his husband with the real fear of expanding their already full-to-bursting menagerie.

“But Blaine, honey...”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“It’s good. It’s what Artie said. It’s the one. If this role wasn’t written for you, and your range, I don’t know who else they could have possibly imagined for it.”

Kurt’s eyes are gentle over his striking cheekbones.

“I’m so proud of you, and of every part you’ve ever mastered-”

“Even Nightbird?” Blaine demands.

Kurt chuckles. “Yes, even Nightbird, as loath as I am to admit it.” He leans in and puts a slow, sweet kiss on the corner of Blaine’s lips, and they breathe there together for a few moments before Kurt pulls away.

“But I want you to have this. Turning down this opportunity, just for me, it’s not worth the sacrifice, because it wouldn’t cost me anything. I trust you, honey.”

“I know,” Blaine whispers, and his hand, still lightly stroking Kurt’s back, slips up the hem of his t-shirt, skin hot and and dipped and smoother than silk. “And I want to make you proud. But not like this.”

“Blaine, it won’t change anything. I’m not afraid, so why are you?”

Oh, his wise, beautiful husband. Blaine scowls, looks away to the gaudy gold-quilted duvet.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to feel even a drop of the despair he felt at 17. Maybe nothing is worth the risk of feeling so awful, like such an unworthy piece of shit, that knowing Kurt was still out there, maybe thinking about him, was the only thing pulling Blaine’s eyelids open in the mornings.

Kurt’s hands come up to the sides of his head, tentatively smoothing his hair over his skull.

“I think, my love, that maybe you’ve built it up, that maybe, this simple act has become more than just like, a way to prove your commitment to me. And I don’t think it’s healthy, and I don’t want it to stand in the way of your career.”

“But Kurt. If I had to choose between my career and you-”

“Wait, that’s _not_ what I’m saying-”

“I know, I know. Just.” He sighs, finally meeting Kurt’s eyes again.

“You know that there is nothing in the world more important to me than you? Not acting, not an Oscar, not Artie’s wrath for godsake. Just, this part is not even something I want to consider.”

Kurt is frowning at him, the tender-eyed frown he makes when he’s trying to navigate the rickety wooden bridges of Blaine’s mind, trying to better understand his own husband. Trying to figure out Blaine’s rational when he’ll never know what it’s like to live and breathe and function within the bonfire of love that Blaine feels for Kurt Hummel.

“Okay, honey. I’ll stop. It’s a shame, but if you don’t want to do it, I’ll help you keep Artie at bay.”

Blaine’s hand trails up, up, up under Kurt’s shirt, pulling it over his head.

“I love you.” He pushes the words against Kurt’s mouth, his neck, his bare shoulder.

“I love you, too,” Kurt whispers back, kneeling up, straddling Blaine’s thigh to get at the tie on his pajama bottoms. Blaine lays a hand over Kurt’s.

“Just, wait, can I...?”

And Kurt smiles, confused, until Blaine tips him down, lays him out, white skin on gold.

He lingers at Kurt’s stomach, tight and smooth, speaking its own gurgly language to Blaine when he presses his ear to it, nose in the neat trail of hair below Kurt’s navel. Kisses at his hipbones, the crease of his thigh when Blaine pulls Kurt’s bottoms right off.

“Love you so much,” he says again when Kurt’s hands return to his hair, pet and stroke, then dig gently into Blaine’s scalp when he finally closes his lips around Kurt’s cock.

Slow and thorough, long and hot, until Kurt is shuddering under his mouth, his tongue, his palms. Kurt’s knees rise around his shoulders, and Blaine can feel Kurt’s toes curling into the bed.

He watches Kurt come up his own chest, splashing through Blaine’s fingers because he can’t stop tracing the wet, pretty shape of Kurt’s cockhead. He digs his messy hand into his own bottoms and finishes himself off, grunting into the warm, fragrant space where Kurt’s cock meets his body, breathing hard and open-mouthed.

He rolls off his husband when Kurt’s legs finally fall open, the air cool and awakening. Kurt’s hand gropes around until it finds Blaine’s cheek, which he pats softly.

“Yeah, honey, whatever you want to do. You have my support one hundred per cent. Just keep doing _that_.”

“Okay,” Blaine croaks.

“And get up here and kiss me.”

***

“Good morning, Blaine.”

Artie’s smile is all teeth with an anticipatory gleam. If Blaine didn’t know better, he’d think Artie had an ear pressed to their guestroom door last night, listening in on Kurt’s persuasion tactics.

“Good morning, Artie,” he returns mildly. “Good morning, Sugar.”

Sugar flicks a bright orange fingernail at him from where she’s holding her crystal-encrusted iPhone, eyes on whatever she’s scrolling, the half a grapefruit on the patio table in front of her untouched.

“So, did you have a good sleep?” Artie asks as Blaine sits down, one of the Abrams’ staff pouring him coffee and juice without being asked.

“Save it, Artie. To his credit, Kurt did his best to convince me - not like that - but I’m sorry. The answer is still no.”

Artie sighs deeply, and he looks out over the patio to the beach, like he’s considering rolling right into the ocean in his despair.

“He really liked it, though. Cried and everything,” Blaine tells him in an attempt at consolation.

“Kurt is not the audience I’d use to test the emotional spectrum of this film. I mean, he even cried during Ape Academy 4: Gympanzee Catastrophe. He might be crying as we speak.”

Blaine can’t really argue with that, so he doesn’t, just starts helping himself to blueberry banana pancakes, which not coincidentally happen to be his favorite.

“I have to say, though,” he says between bites to a mournful Artie, “you really outdid yourself this weekend. The plane, the food, the entertainment. Impressive tactics, even if they failed miserably.”

“Oh,” Artie replies after a moment, listless. “That was Sugar mostly.”

Sugar raises her free hand in recognition for the credit, bracelets jangling down her arm as she makes a raise-the-roof motion. Her eyes never leave her phone.

“Really?” Blaine tries to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Mmmm,” Sugar responds, her thumb jabbing at the screen with one last flourish before putting the phone down beside her plate. “Artie said he wanted to butter you up to take some crazy part. So are you going to?”

“Uh, no. Thanks for the effort, but no. It would mean kissing another actor, a male actor, and I don’t...well, I don’t do that.”

Sugar rolls her eyes, then snaps her fingers. One of the staff puts a fresh Vogue in her hand and she starts fanning through the pages as she tells them,

“Why don’t you dummies just cast Kurt in the opposite role?”

Artie gasps at the same time Blaine’s jaw drops.

Not three seconds later, Kurt comes padding out onto the patio, arms bare, body sharp and sculpted and perfect. But Blaine knows that Kurt can remold himself. Can fall so completely into a character that Blaine will question who he’s getting into bed with at night after a successful stage show.

“Ohhh, pancakes! Morning all,” he says cheerfully and kisses Sugar’s cheek and then Blaine’s cheek before he sits.

“He'll have to bulk up,” Artie muses.

“He’ll need a voice coach, his British accent sounds like he’s having a stroke,” Blaine adds, leaning forward. It’s perfect. Yes, of course.

Kurt narrows his eyes between them, pitcher of warm maple syrup dangling from his fingers.

“I presume you’re not talking about me, Blaine Anderson. Unless you’re looking for a verbal critique of your terminal forklift arms.”

“Kurt. How would you like to be a movie star?” Artie smiles.

Blaine sucks in a breath as Kurt turns his suspicious glare on Artie. He would have liked to ease Kurt into the idea, maybe go down on him again for good measure.

“I’m a singer, Artie. Plus I’m like a Rachel Berry, I need applause from a live audience to live.”

“You’re not just a singer, you’re a _performer_. One of the best-”

“The very best!” Blaine chimes in.

“Okay, yeah, you’re the best. Film acting is sleepwalking compared to what you do on a nightly basis.”

“What are you guys even talking about?” Kurt sighs, and starts cutting up his pancakes.

“It was my idea,” Sugar singsongs as Artie opens his mouth.

“Yes, right. My lovely and brilliant wife suggested that Blaine would have no problem playing the lead if _you_ played the supporting role.”

Kurt drops his fork and gasps. “You want me to play the Rupert to his Angus?”

“They’re named ‘Rupert’ and ‘Angus’?” Blaine winces.

“There might be some edits,” Artie assures him, waving a hand in Blaine’s direction.

“Can the dog live?” Kurt demands.

“The dog dies.”

Kurt squints at Artie with distaste and then looks to Blaine.

One eyebrow raises. _Are you good with this, honey?_

Blaine smiles, closed-lipped but sure. _Yes, yes, yes._

“Alright, Abrams. I’ll have my people call your people.”


End file.
